


Death Won't Do Us Apart

by hungryforramen



Category: JO1 (Japan Band)
Genre: Depictions of Death, Depictions of Murder, Immortality, M/M, The Old Guard AU, depections of war, happy fucking christmas, poetryfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28261113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungryforramen/pseuds/hungryforramen
Summary: Kinjo’s fingers pulled the trigger on Ren, finishing him off at point-blank. But unbeknownst to him, he wasn’t the only skilled marksman on the battlefield.
Relationships: Kawashiri Ren/Kinjo Sukai
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Death Won't Do Us Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just get it out of the way:
> 
> This fic deals with distressing subjects: war, death, and murder. Everyone's definition of 'graphic' is different, and I respect and care about your wellbeing. If you are to proceed, I hope you'll like it and feel free to click out at any point should you feel uncomfortable reading it. Much love. <3
> 
> First JO1 fic ever. And I said I'll not write real people fic ever again. Anyway, thought of Joe and Nicky from TOG and a fucking depressing poem I studied in uni. Mix them with SkyRen, et voila. In the words of James Acaster, 'Started making it, had a breakdown, bon appetite!'
> 
> Edit [23/1/21]: Mispellings.

It was the summer of 1916. They were at the unlikeliest place and at the unlikeliest time.

The sun was at its apex, shining brightly on a fateful day. The heat of the barren wasteland seeped through the infantry clad in military gear. Men drenched in sweat, eyes clouded by debris pulverised by bombs. Aircraft flew overhead, signalling that the war wasn’t only happening on the ground. It wasn’t the saltiness of perspiration that hit their noses that afternoon.

The stench of death clung onto their clothes like perfume gifted by their betrothed the previous summer, stained with dried blood. It was a reminder of their inevitable fate. The thought made them cower in their minds, but the men had to put on a brave front, or death awaits them impatiently at their doors.

Kawashiri Ren had been in this position before. Too many times to count. But no amount of time Ren spent tousling on his makeshift bed, tugging onto every bit of sanity he could tether on before jolting upright, huffing desperately for air, could bring him here. His dreams, as dreadful as they were, spanned over hundreds of years, taking him to worlds unbeknownst to him, and his path was yet to cross the young man who became the subject of his dreams. Until now.

The battalions cried war around him. The loudness of their final cries demanding someone, anyone, to help them as they bleed to death swelled then faded into an ear-splitting ring. Ren didn’t flinch. He stood there in his own world, consumed by the flashes of his dreams from yesterday, the day before yesterday, and from 400 years ago. His heart ached. He struggled to grasp his reality. The others trudged deep into the fray around him and met their demise almost instantly, but Ren’s legs remained unmoved.

Bullets were the least of his fears. If anything were to happen to him, he knew it was impossible for him to die. Immortality, of which he knew not of, would be on his side.

Ren, who had lived for nearly a thousand years, was a self-assured man. He couldn’t be mistaken when he saw a glimpse of the young man pacing before the enemy’s frontline, covered in dirt and sprayed blood of his allies and adversaries. His armband bore the insignia of the Central forces. Ren felt a wash of relief, though it was odd to feel such a way. He was in the heart of the war, after all. His eyes, round with amazement, trailed the young man who stood tall and strong and fearless. The latter’s combat helmet fell over, covering his eyes—oh, Ren could never forget those eyes—carved in an angle so sharp, it sent daggers every time he saw them in his dreams. Even from afar, Ren realised they were a firepit.

The young man felt a gaze on him. His brows furrowed, not because of the glistening sunray or debris. It only took him a second to switch from bewilderment to pure hatred. He snatched a rifle from the grip of a fallen comrade and paced towards the centre of the war. It was then the thought hit Ren: the young man may recognise him too.

The man had been different in every way every time Ren saw him in his dreams. He was aristocratic: a man with many talents and had fought in countless wars. When it comes to war, Ren had only seen him in the most vulnerable state. Swords and arrows and bullets pierced his chest, blood pooled in his mouth before he fell onto the ground. Other nights, Ren had seen his name written in symbols and fine, cursive letters which Ren couldn’t read. And in recent years, the young man’s appearance became frequent, like a premonition. The fogginess dissipated, and Ren managed to catch a glimpse of a name still wet from the seamless stroke of the quill: _Kinjo_.

‘ _Lieutenant Kawashiri!_ ’ His general yelled from the station, tearing him off from his daydream.

Nonplussed, the roars from the battle came back, but Ren was too disoriented to react. His fellow compatriots started pushing and pulling him towards the coalesced bodies sprawled on wet soil, stumbling. He was desperate to find his balance.

When Ren looked up, the man was much closer. He was still on the battlefield, his rifle drawn. His movements were fluid and graceful and filled with disgust. The young man was quicker than lightning compared to his adversaries; he never missed a shot. A skilled marksman. That Ren didn’t know about Kinjo.

One by one, Ren’s comrades fell onto the ground like flies. He could only stare in horror as he pushed himself up, wobbling, unable to stop the monstrosity unfolding before him. And just before Kinjo reached Ren, he pulled out a revolver from the holster, cocked it, and shot one of Ren’s comrades right between his brows, clean. The poor soldier flopped backwards, and if there was anything he saw before meeting the reaper, Ren prayed it was the blinding sun in the sky.

‘Kinjo,’ Ren chocked, voice rasped. The name came out a question.

The young man halted. ‘You know me?’ His voice flat, as if he knew already knew the answer to his question. ‘Who are you?’ Kinjo demanded.

The revolver was already pointed in between Ren’s own brows, the pungent smell of gunpowder permeated from the muzzle. Ren could see the hammer pulled all the way, and it made him stop in his tracks. He wasn’t scared of it, no, but he wasn’t going to die and revive without getting an answer from the menacing young man.

‘Kawashiri Ren,’ he responded. His voice was low, only Kinjo could hear. His eyes glued to the muzzle. Ren knew he was on borrowed time; he was already counting down the seconds before the bullet was lodged in his skull, but before that, he needed to do whatever it takes to tread carefully. ‘You don’t want to do that,’ Ren muttered.

Kinjo flashed a smirk, but it disappeared in a split second. His eyes, Ren noted, were like glass. It reminded Ren of his own, but these pair of eyes were different. Merciless, yet composed. There were no signs of empathy left in Kinjo. He was trained to feel that way. ‘You don’t know what I want.’

‘At least, let me stand.’

The revolver followed Ren as he stood, not missing a beat. Ren’s finger sneaked to the trigger of his own rifle, but Kinjo spotted it and stabilised his stance. ‘Do that, and you will die.’

‘Isn’t that’s the purpose of us being here?’

Kinjo laughed humourlessly; his eyes unchanged. He knew he will make it out alive while his foes and allies stayed dead. ‘It’s not _my_ purpose.’

Ren knew it too. He had seen Kinjo at his most vulnerable: getting stuck by swords, tortured, burned, and bombarded. But each time it happened, the sinews of his gashes intertwined, skin regenerated, and the shrapnel spits out of his wounds as he gasped for air, grunting in pain.

Ren cautioned, ‘You know that I can’t die either.’

‘Then I’ll make sure this will be the last time you’ll walk on the face of the earth. For however long it will take, I’ll make sure of it,’ Kinjo spat, voice filled with unexplained animosity. It made Ren’s heart jolt.

When Ren couldn’t think of a better way to make this man listen, his fate was sealed. Ren prayed that he will be the first to be resurrected.

‘I’ll die if it will make you listen.’

‘Fine.’

Kinjo’s fingers pulled the trigger on Ren, finishing him off at point-blank. But unbeknownst to him, he wasn’t the only skilled marksman on the battlefield.

* * *

It was a fine mid-December morning. The cloud obscured the sun, casting a shade on the snow that thickened over the course of the night. Cool breeze hit the wind chime in the patio, flailing lightly, creating a soothing chorus that blended with the sound of children’s laughter, excited to throw their bodies onto the fresh snow. The day had just begun.

Juxtaposed by the lively neighbourhood, Kinjo Sukai curled up in the armchair by the fireplace in his dark study, tugging the throw that covered his legs and chest, desperately wanting to absorb the warmth the fire radiated. It was hopeless. He could only feel the coolness down his spine as his eyes scanned the worn, yellowed pages of the history book on World War 1. His mind processed every word, every atrocity the war had caused, ultimately reliving the nightmare that kept him awake at night.

Sukai witnessed violence. He was also a contributor, a reason why many men had their lives cut tragically short.

He had been there in the war, fighting against the Allied forces for half a year. The days he spent on the field were as long as the nights he spent in his camp bed, fighting the urge to fall asleep. Sukai had lived longer than the seasoned general of his company, but he was too young and too brazen, flaunting at death with the only asset that differentiated him from the unfortunate youths of that time. He walked out of the war triumphant even when the forces he allied himself with had lost. But the war he fought wasn’t his war after all. His war was different.

The power that came with predestined resurrection while everyone else lay there, motionless, their bodies shells of their former selves, was like a drug to him, blinding him over time.

His morning was interrupted by the soft rap on the door. Sukai spun at once when the door creaked open. He closed the book quickly, and in an attempt to hide it, he nestled it in his grasp, pretending to be preoccupied with the fire ahead of him.

‘You hadn’t slept a blink. What are you doing?’

Ren came around with a cup of tea in his hands. He spotted the book Sukai held so tightly, peeling it away from him. ‘World War 1,’ he read aloud in dismay. Sukai thought Ren would put it away on the bastion of shelves that lined up against their walls, but instead, Ren held it out to him albeit his hesitation.

Sukai retrieved the book cautiously. ‘You sound disappointed.’

Ren sighed. Ignoring Sukai’s remark, he said, ‘We’ve talked about this, over and over. Why are you revisiting the past?’

Stumped, Sukai wished he had an answer. ‘I just—I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to know more about how it happened,’ he lied.

‘You were there, Sukai. You lived through it. And reading this… all it does is it induces your nightmare.’

Sukai knew it all too well, yet he couldn’t let go of the book. He wished he had the courage to leave it all behind, but the carnage he committed couldn’t redeem itself. The book bore his history as much as it did for the world. He needed to convince himself that the war was wrought by those who were like him, power-hungry. But it was also the war that brought him face to face with the man who appeared in his dreams centuries before it.

‘I fought you.’ His voice was small as regret sluiced over him. That was the curse of immortality: time was linear; it goes forwards, but never backwards.

‘You did. As many times as I came back to life.’ Ren kneeled before him, his hands enveloped Sukai’s own. ‘You needed a reason to live, but nothing good will come out of dwelling about the past.’

He still couldn’t let it go. Sukai could hear the patriotic songs the young men sang as they leave their families and lovers behind to die for their country. ‘Pro patria mori,’ he scoffed, indignant. ‘It wasn’t my country to begin with.’

Ren could only nod. He, too, had heard it all before. ‘That was a lie they told all of us when they were recruiting soldiers. You were forced to pick a side. And we were in it because we could.’ Ren reached out to ruffle Sukai’s hair. ‘The past taught you something, didn’t it? You’re different now.’

The younger scowled, eyes narrowed in annoyance, but he didn’t fight the touch.

The vivid image of an angry, bewildered man with a revolver in hand returned to Ren’s mind. He remembered it like it was yesterday. Those pair of eyes were once pits of fire—ferocious—but Ren saw them soften over the decades. All he could see now was the reflection of the fire dancing gracefully in the fireplace.

‘You don’t look a day different,’ Ren continued after a while. ‘Dulce et decorum est, indeed.’

Sukai averted his gaze past Ren. He couldn’t bear to look at him after what he had done all these years. He pulled himself away from Ren’s touch, shrinking himself into the armchair, his arms crossed tightly against his body, chest still burned with immense fear and regret.

He sat there wordlessly, his gaze fell on Ren, whose eyes were his source of comfort. Just like Ren, Sukai’s dreams were in fragments. Foggy but intense. An enigma. He couldn’t capture it all, but there was one thing that was constant about them: _Ren_.

When Sukai singled him out in the battle, it was almost like a dream come true. He couldn’t mistake the striking image of the man who terrorised his nights for someone else. Ren’s looks had changed as the years gone by, but his kind eyes, his stance, the minute details in his movements hadn’t changed, not even a bit. At that moment, Sukai was absorbed by the resentment that welled up in him for hundreds of years. Everything burst at once.

A thought circled Sukai’s mind: did his deserve to be treated this way? He had murdered countless innocent men at war in cold blood throughout his journey to satiate the insatiable. He had killed Ren over and over belligerently, and the man just came back to life as if nothing had happened. Sukai wasn’t berated, and Ren didn’t try to kill him. He knew Ren could if he wanted to. The man’s movements were swift and light. No one could anticipate his strikes, not even Sukai. So, was this the universe’s retribution? A kindness Sukai had never experienced before?

‘I’m afraid that you’re too forgiving,’ Sukai said, breaking their silence.

A soft smile carved on Ren’s lips. He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know what you went through that pushed you to the edge,’ he explained, ‘I thought, if I were you, I wanted to be consoled. I’d want someone to be there for me. And about what’s going on, we’ll talk about it whenever you’re ready.’

A simple ‘thank you’ was all Sukai managed to say, but it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.

Sukai’s mobile phone blared from the coffee table, and they began to move. Ren reached out for it first. ‘I’ll get it. Sit tight.’ His thumbs brushed the younger’s cheeks faintly before walking away. Sukai instinctively leaned into it; it offered no heat in the world could offer. ‘Hello? No, I answer his phone sometimes…’

And just like that, Sukai was left alone in the dark again.

He flipped through the pages of the book until it landed on a photograph of them taken in the final war they fought in, this time side by side. They posed near their barracks, a rifle in their arms, ready to head into the war. They weren’t on the best of terms then, Sukai admitted, but he had a whale of a time being in an operation with Ren, bringing down the devil off its throne.

Sukai was fond of Ren’s smile in the photo, how his eyes crinkled at the edge like a child thrilled to receive gifts from Father Christmas. Ren’s eyes still sparkled even through the old, vignetted photo; he wore his heart on his sleeves. Sukai, as always, wore an unreadable expression. He had no reason to show the world his emotion, not even to Ren.

A moment later, Ren entered the study, scrolling through Sukai’s phone intently, then took a sip of his tepid tea. He made a face. ‘That was Copley,’ he said. Their handler.

‘A new job.’ Sukai was disinterested. ‘Where?’

‘Thailand. On the 24th.’

‘I see.’ Sukai’s thumb traced the photo. ‘Do you remember this?’

Ren glanced at it. ‘Kind of? World War 2, somewhere in France. I don’t really remember it, but I recall you being a pain in the ass.’

He chuckled. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’ Sukai placed the photo in between the pages of the book then set it aside. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever told me about your life. The places you’ve been to, the wars you’ve fought in.’

Ren shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I can barely remember my age. I don’t think it matters anymore, though it could be a good campfire story.’ Ren had lived much longer than Sukai; it was normal for a thousand years’ worth of memories to fade away. ‘I should retire. Have fun while I still can. Go on a cruise…’

‘Yes, like a grandma,’ Sukai interjected wryly. Ren only rolled his eyes.

Ren stopped, then hummed, enticed by an idea. ‘Sunny place this Christmas, just the two of us.’ When Sukai’s brows furrowed, Ren continued, ‘Come on, you love beaches!’

Snickering, Sukai responded, ‘We’ll be there for a job.’

‘Yeah, but that’ll only take a second.’

‘If we make it out alive.’

‘We’ll always make it out alive.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I apologise if the quality didn't hold up. There are mistakes in the text, but I'll do my best to edit what I'd miss.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](https://justlikedomino.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/KIMINOGRAVITY). Watch me being a stupid jam.
> 
> I do not consent reposts of my fics on other apps and sites. You can read my works [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungryforramen/works) or on my [writing tumblr](https://ghoulishlytokyo.tumblr.com).


End file.
